


Fistula

by bug_from_space



Series: lac·er·a·tion [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Tim Drake, Hurt/Comfort, Insanity, Sweaters, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, the comfort is temporary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-15 15:51:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18076355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bug_from_space/pseuds/bug_from_space
Summary: fis·tu·la (n.)/ˈfisCH(ə)lə/an abnormal or surgically made passage between a hollow or tubular organ and the body surface, or between two hollow or tubular organs.The wounds are healing- healed- and Tim is terrified by what sort of scars were left behind.





	Fistula

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2, and the followup to Keloid. 
> 
> In theory is's not a must to read Keloid first, I suggest it, but you should get ther gist of it. 
> 
> But disclaimer: I haven't watched the movie where this idea is spawned from, all the information is gathered from various fics, and copious googling.
> 
> Notes: both Janet and Jack are dead, Jason is either dead, or recently resurrected, he is, at any rate, an unknown, and Tim after the events, was placed in a hospital by Bruce, and J.J is the part of Tim that's just kind of messed up by the Joker... I think that about covers everything!

There are some days when Tim feels a thousand miles away from his own head, and the insanity at that gnaws at the edges of his mind. But there are others where he can hardly breathe for fear of shattering into a billion hysterically laughing pieces. He isn't a fool. He knows the therapist has a panic button in case he starts laughing (helpmeIcan’tbreathe), or if he were ever to attack her. (It's for his own good, the doctors tell him, and he isn't sure if he believes them or not.)

She’s never had to use it, but he knows there has been moments where she’s nearly hit it, and ones where he almost wanted her to. On the days when J.J is too close to the surface, and his entire body feels like vibrating with the force it takes to hold him back.

* * *

He can't bring himself to look at her in the face. Instead he focuses on the floor tile in front of her shoe, tracing the light pattern lines with his eyes. He wraps his arms around his knees, holding them close, as he sits on the floor, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. "Is today a good day?" His therapist asks. 

She knows the answer, but she says it's healthy for him to recognize it himself. He shakes his head. Today won’t be a productive session. Bad days never are, even walking to the room had been a struggle. (J.J is loud today. Not anything particularly bad, just present. It could be worse, Tim thinks, but when he looks in the mirror he still expects to see J.J.) His therapist nods, and continues, routine questions with routine answers. What feels like an endless round of yes, and no answers, she knows what to do by now, and so does he.

* * *

Today he sits in the chair, arms wrapped tight around his body, a new sweater pulled close. It's a stretchy red, thing, soft and comfortable, brought with Alfred from his visit two days ago. He gave him a hug for that. It had been a good day. (It's not strong enough to hang himself with. He knows the doctors won't allow him anything like that. He's still too much a hazard to himself). "Is today a good day?" Dr. Sharrow asks.

He debates the answer for a long minute, feeling safe in the warm confines of the sweater. Tim shrugs, "It's not a bad day, but..." he trails off, assembling his thought. "He's still there, but, not as bad," He wraps his arms a little tighter around himself. "I feel like I'm a little less than half functional." He settles on, voice quiet, afraid to disturb the tentative peace that had settled over the room after months of struggle.

He’s afraid; afraid to admit to his own weakness. He still feels like Tim though, which is always a hard thing on bad days. Those are the days when the walls between Tim and J.J seem thin, and he’s not entirely sure who he is anymore. But today is okey, he’s not quite Tim, but he’s not J.J, and he knows she won’t judge him about anything.

Dr. Sharrow hums in consideration at his words, her eyes flicking toward the bright red sweater. "Would you say that the sweater’s helped at all?"

Tim nods. "Mhmm. Its..." The word gets lodged in his throat. "Comforting." His fingers play with the ends of the sleeves as he thinks. It was vibrant, and the colour was grounding, it kept J.J at bay. Plus, he thought, looking down at the simple monochrome, hospital issued clothes, it was warm.

* * *

It's late spring- nearly summer- the first time he goes outside since he entered the hospital. (He pretends not to be disturbed by the fact he's spent nearly three seasons in that place). He's with Alfred, the sweater that had become a constant drawn closely around him. The thin stretch of land near the hospital was green, and Tim feels at peace in it. He moves slowly, unused to the outside world after months of remaining inside the hospital. 

Alfred’s quiet beside him, content to let Tim control the conversation. He appreciates it. The guided conversations of therapy have their positives, but the simple ability to enjoy someone’s company without fear is a one he didn’t realize he missed. “How is…” Tim starts, suddenly lost at what he should say. Alfred is there, and Dick (for all he doesn’t speak to him), and Barbara visit, there’s so little he knows what to ask. “Bruce?” he asks after a pause, the word rushed, as if it’s a forbidden topic he’s dared to broach.

“Master Bruce is well.” Alfred replies, not telling him of how the man had spiralled down into guilt. Or how the manor seemed so much quieter without Tim’s presence. Or how Dick had seemed to fade, both of his baby brothers gone, even if only one of them was buried. All of that remained unspoken.

Tim nodded at Alfred’s answer. The conversation lapsing back into silence, as they continued along the stretch of green. The sun was mostly hidden beyond the veil of clouds, and the weather wasn’t too hot, but the world was too different, it wasn’t like early autumn. There was green, and the odd flower, things were being reborn instead of dying. It wasn’t that the world was wrong, Tim though, it was that he _was_.

* * *

Tim was curled up on the small bed, hands pressed tightly to his ears, as if he could block out J.J, his face split into a horrific parody of a smile. He had been getting better, _he had been getting better, **he had been getting better.**_. Shaking violently with a spasm, he let out a sob. This was how he was going to die, this was Hell, and this was ho he would die; not in combat, or as Robin, or disease. No, his own mind was the thing that was dragging him to damnation. 

Doctor Sharrow would tell him to locate the problem and work through it logically. But, Tim thought, eyes watering with held back tears, he couldn’t. He was weaker than J.J.. He had always been weak, everyone had always said so. If he hadn’t been careless he wouldn’t be here. Ih he had been stronger, Bruce would love him enough to visit, maybe Dick would have spoken to him. It didn’t matter though. He wasn’t strong or better, he was just Tim.

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy! Please leave a starving writer some comments!


End file.
